When She Loved Me
by sweetPixiesmile
Summary: A oneshot, inspired by Randy Newman's of the same title, but heart-wrenchingly sung by Sarah McLachlan.  KiGo.


**When she loved me**  
_by Randy Newman_

When somebody loved me  
Everything was beautiful  
Every hour spent together  
Lives within my heart

And when she was sad  
I was there to dry her tears  
And when she was happy so was I  
When she loved me

Through the summer and the fall  
We had each other that was all  
Just she and I together  
Like it was meant to be

And when she was lonely  
I was there to comfort her  
And I knew that she loved me

So the years went by  
I stayed the same  
But she began to drift away  
I was left alone  
Still I waited for the day  
When she'd say  
I will always love you

Lonely and forgotten  
Never thought she'd look my way  
And she smiled at me  
And held me  
Just like she used to do

Like she loved me

When she loved me

When somebody loved me  
Everything was beautiful  
Every hour spent together  
Lives within my heart

When she loved me...

When she loved me

* KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP *

**When She Loved Me**  
_by sweetPixiesmile_

* KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP ** KP *

I sigh, trying to release the unrelenting stress of the day as I sag back against the door, pushing the heavy oak closed with the weight of my discontent. I close my tired, burning eyes, resisting the drag of the clothing stuffed Predator backpack, the hard leather Henchtronics laptop and projector combination case and the case work stuffed Kevlon messenger bag as each dropped with a solid, depressing thunk on the dark, stained oak floor.

I groan with displeasure as I force a finger between my heel and my utterly ordinary discount pumps, gritting my teeth as the cheap hard plither gouges the bandage over my knuckle. Of course, I would forget. The shoe drops with a dull thud. I massage the sore and stiff, nylon covered foot. I'd need to use my pumice stone tonight, after a nice long bath. The ritual is repeated, as, again, I forget my injury.

With another heartfelt sigh, I stagger, blindly, past the antique hall console table where my keys and identification cards jangle jarringly as they drop from my careless hand. Another fifteen feet to a wool, fair trade area rug that had cost way too much, past an elegant three legged end table and I'm almost at my destination: my couch. I eye the treadmill that faces the floor to ceiling frameless windows that overlook the harbour, on the other side of the couch for a moment, considering, before turning away and flopping with heavy relief onto the old, four cushioned microfiber deck.

Another day of lectures, presentations and training completed. A vague look of discontent on the boss's face, as usual, as if discomforted by the prickle of concern, and a belated pat on the back before an excruciating three hour commute home from the airport. Late, now around 2 in the morning, again, as usual, with no hope for the six am wake up call. No supper waiting, again, as usual, and too tired to do anything but starve. No one to come home to. As usual.

The light on the phone is flashing a slow, monotonous pulse. One message, as usual. At least, on this day it is. Each year, on this day, since that day.

I remember that day.

Fifteen years ago, to the day, this day.

The day that love slammed open that heavy oak door and walked out, with a sneer of disgust, her eyes alight with unforgiveness, the beautiful, perfect mouth forming words, words, steeped in contempt, incomprehensible in the midst of the knowledge that the world, my world, was crumbling before my very eyes, and for all that I was, it wasn't enough to save it. Words that battered my wounded heart.

Fatally.

That day, life lost its way and sacrificed dreams for survival.

Today, fifteen years ago, it was. Left and never came back.

And the tears fall, as they fell each year on today, this day.

If I was hoping to lose myself in the affects of the day, wow, was I wrong.

You know what they say about being heartsick, heartbroken? Life just goes on, remorseless and uncaring. You just carry that wound around, never healing, never quite gone from your mind. It paints everything you do, everything you are. And your mind, oh yes, how smart it is, runs around incessantly, circle after circle, wondering, blaming, uncaring.

Was I too boring?

Was I too nagging?

Was there something wrong with me? Of course there was, or else why would I have lost the one perfect thing in my life?

Does time heal all wounds? For most, I suppose, but only because you forgot just how important it was to you when you lost it.

Sometimes, she's there in my listless reveries.

Always, within sight.

Always, just out of reach.

So I drag myself out of bed each day, and follow the routine. Get up, go to work, come home and try to sleep. And try not to feel like I was a walking zombie. Try not to let anyone clue in on how my wounded heart bleeds every single day, and how I've just sort of... given up.

It was dangerous for me, for a while. So much so the boss practically threw the book at me to see the resident psychiatrist. Who said to me the same thing as what everyone else had already.

Move on.

You'll get over it.

Take care of yourself, and you'll eventually feel comfortable with yourself.

You'll meet someone new, maybe someone better.

There are others out there.

But they don't get it.

There will never be another one out there, for me. Just like there will never be another one of _me_, barring clones and a brain transfer, there will never, ever be another one of _her_.

The one I gave all of myself to, with nothing held back. The one who made me who I was, just as how I made her.

And I knew her.

How she smelled everything before she would eat it.

She'd cock her head just so, when talking to you.

She liked to have all the laundry just so when drying on the rack.

She would get so hot while sleeping that I'd end up with all the blankets in the morning.

She was such a light sleeper, that even the tiniest, unusual whisper would have her on her feet, how she loved to hold my hand between her knees when we curled up in bed.

She would crinkle her nose when she was teasing.

She loved running her fingers over my nails.

She was especially ticklish in a very embarrassing part of her body.

She could do anything she set her mind to.

I lost all of that.

Stop it! You need sleep!

I stifle the sobbing, push myself to my feet, and stumble my sorry ass past the granite counters and stainless steel kitchen.

I ignore the double doors to the bedroom. I haven't been in there since that day, there are simply too many memories in there. I enter a square patch of darkness within darkness and grope for the light switch, revealing a chic, dark coloured, marble tiled bathroom. If I'm to get the potential three hours of sleep, I needed to scrub the tears from my eyes.

Good luck with that.

I scour at my professional face, removing the layers of make-up that hid the anguished truth.

I look at myself in the mirror, at the pale, sharp chinned visage that stared back with dark smudged, world-weary eyes. I'd always favoured my mother's looks but even she, I think, had never been this sickly, wraith-thin thing. It would be her worried message left on the phone. She always calls, afraid that perhaps this day of the year would be my last.

Instead of heading to the guest bedroom, where I sometimes sleep, I meander to my usual resting place and ease down on the couch.

The remote, sitting on the inlaid wood top of the side table, is in my hand, and the television flickers on, the only light in a night with no moon to break my vigil. There's nothing on, nothing to distract my overheated mind and battle-scarred heart. Nothing to sooth the wounded soul inside my frail body. I shiver, but not from the cold, or the plastic surgeon talking at me from the screen that paints pale ghosts along my skin. I open a throw that hangs on the back of the couch and wrap myself in it's woollen warmth.

And eventually, exhausted by my pain-filled past, I fall asleep.

As usual.

I awake to a wondrous warmth. It squishes me and squeezes me gently, and I revel in the fluffy softness. I luxuriate in it. Until I hear the faint sound of someone humming. And suddenly I realize that I'm in bed, not on the couch.

I turn over, my eyes bleary, my head pillowed in an indescribable magnificence, and find myself staring in the darkness into a pair of luminous green eyes.

"Sh-shego?" I stammer. "Is... what...? How?"

She gazes down at me, her eyes full of concern and whispered promises. Her lips curl in that snarky, cheeky grin I know so well.

My mind is a whirlpool of mixed and jumbled thoughts, tumbling to the rhythm of my quivering heart.

"I guess I've finally gone off the deep-end, huh? I've gone crazy, because you'd never be here. You swore you'd never come back. And you don't break your promises." She wraps her arms around me, pressing her delectably nude and heavenly body against mine. All her curves fit against mine perfectly, just as I remember. I'm still wondering if I'm dreaming when her smile erases all coherent thought, bringing a frighteningly intense focus on the here and now.

"Then I guess we can both be crazy together," she replies, in that husky, dead sexy voice of hers. "'Cause I'm back."

My withered heart trembles at its forced resuscitation, shaking almost as much as my voice.

"R-really? For good?" She leans over and her luscious lips touch mine, gently, coaxingly, lingeringly, sending a jolt into the very core of my being. I whimper as a dark tide rises within me, a swelling aria of song that thrums with a fierce and tempestuous melody that clamours chaotically inside me.

"Yeah," she sighs as she draws slightly away to look me in the eye. "I'm back for good, Princess."

Tears aren't always for sadness.

And I'm smiling like a fool.

As usual.


End file.
